Clean
by littlecannoli
Summary: Bum finds a pile of women's laundry in Sangwoo's dryer. If only that were the last of his worries. Killing stalking. Sangbum.


Bum sits quietly on his crushed ankles. He doesn't feel the pain much, anymore, just a dull throbbing.

What he sees in front of him is not really a surprise. Instead, it's more like his internal fears have been confirmed. It's what he expected to see at some point. Tangled and colorful, spilling onto the floor.

His hand slides through the overflowing mound of fabric, afraid to touch it, but feeling a fascination, along with a gut curdling dread, with the pile of death represented by these objects.

Bum wonders what Sangwoo is going to do with all the clothes. He doesn't have to wonder what he did with the women. But he wonders why he washed everything. He tries to imagine Sangwoo with a laundry basket balanced on his hip, overflowing with blouses, skirts, undergarments... balling up as many as he can carry in his fist and feeding them to the machine. The domestic image does not provide much comfort.

Especially when a voice by his ear asks, "Is that one your favorite?"

Fear sweeps through Bum and his shaking fingers clutch the cloth.

Sangwoo returned. Bum lost track of the time. Six thirty became seven o'clock while he knelt on the floor, staring at nothing but the remnant artifacts of many past lives. He doesn't dare to turn his head, and is afraid to look Sangwoo in the face. He knows he's changed back into his street clothes in preparation to leave. To _leave-_

Now that's too terrifying to think about. His heart races even faster.

"Sangwoo," is all he says in response. In recognition.

"Well, is it?" Sangwoo asks again. Bum can feel the pressure of his stare on the side of his face.

He realizes he doesn't understand what he's been asked.

 _Is what…?_

Sangwoo nods at Bum's lap.

Bum looks down. He's holding a white blouse with two pearlescent buttons in the middle of the breast and lace around the collar. He swallows.

"Do you want to wear it?"

Sangwoo is smiling at him, but it's dark, with purple half-crescents under his intense eyes shadowing the look.

"It would look good on you."

When Bum doesn't answer again, Sangwoo's attention shifts slightly to the side, down to the floor, to the pile at their feet. Sangwoo reaches past him to pick a light red piece of cloth out of the mess. He yanks his arm back and pulls a circle skirt from between layers of garments, long and wrinkled here and there. The floor creaks as he shifts his weight.

"And this," Sangwoo says, throwing it into Bum's lap. He goes back to fishing through the clothing. This time, when he pulls back, a bra and panties are tangled in his fingers. These also are tossed into Bum's lap.

Sangwoo stands, and Bum feels a foot prod the base of his spine.

"What are you waiting for? Get up."

By now, anxiety has blurred most of Bum's thoughts.

With a shriek of wood scraping wood, Sangwoo drags a chair out from beneath the kitchen table. He straddles it and folds his arms over the back. He watches him. Bum tries not to shake.

"You think you look hot?" Sangwoo asks.

The outfit is plain and wholesome, despite the disgust Bum feels while wearing it.

Under the blouse, the padded bra gives the impression of breasts. His chest feels constricted from the elastic band around it. The wire digs into the front of his ribcage.

The red skirt is shorter than the one he was wearing minutes earlier- the one Sangwoo tore off his hips and threw aside like trash. Bum's knees knock together below the hem.

Was he being punished? He couldn't tell.

"Damn. If I had makeup…" Sangwoo says, grabbing Bum's face and examining it.

He looks like an idea occurs to him. Releasing Bum, he get up suddenly and pulls the apron off its hook by the stove. He hangs it around Bum's neck, then takes the ties and wraps them around his waist.

Bum is pulled against him when Sangwoo tightens the knot, and he can feel he has an erection. The sensation of his knuckles on his lower back, the backs of Sangwoo's fingers brushing his skin as he makes the bow; the heat of his broad chest.

"Make me dinner," Sangwoo says, and shoves him away.

Sangwoo quickly gets bored of watching him chop vegetables. When he bends Bum forward over the countertop and lifts his skirt to fuck him, Bum tries not to think about it. Instead, he gets a confusing, visceral enjoyment out of it; feeling Sangwoo inside him; the forceful thrusting, gripping him so hard around the chest it squeezes the breath out of him. Sangwoo is holding him by his chest and twisting the padded cups of the bra as if they were real breasts. He's clutching him too tightly as he jerks his hips, and Bum's chest throbs in pain. One of Sangwoo's hands goes around his throat, clutching it, pushing his thumb into the large artery under his chin. The other hand leaves his chest to white knuckle the edge of the countertop. The veins bulge beneath Sangwoo's flesh.

Sangwoo is panting raggedly now. In his chokehold, Bum struggles to breathe; pulling in hot gasps that grow smaller and smaller as his vision blurs. Yet through all this agony, the dread and the panic that engulfs his fast-fading mind, Bum is thrilled, if only for a moment.


End file.
